Page 20 of Tangled Desires

Sore boobs, cramps, a back that feels like it’s auditioning for a horror flick, and exhaustion—that’s my usual rodeo with irregular periods. But the nausea? The dry heaving?

That’s something, I tell you.

Amelia and I have gotten close lately. She’s a real gem, that one. So adorable, it’s almost sickening. She reassured me over the phone, saying she’s had similar symptoms before with a stomach bug. If she can survive it, so can I. Besides, she’s got that nurturing vibe down to an art form. I take her word for it, because why not? It’s easier than thinking I might be dying.

Now I’m standing in the kitchen, staring at the half-empty fridge, contemplating if I have the energy to make myself some tea. Spoiler: I don’t. Just as I’m about to give up on life and crawl back to bed, my phone buzzes on the counter. It’s Isla.

Isla:Coming over, and I’m bringing Callie with me. She needs some Midge cuddles.

A smile tugs at my lips, despite the swirling stomach rebellion. Callie’s adorable, all chubby cheeks and those massive, judgmental baby eyes. She’s pure serotonin. Sure, I might not win any awards for World’s Best Babysitter—I’m more of a “try not to swear too much around the tiny humans” kind of carer—but I’ve got a soft spot for little kids. Still, the walking plague over here probably shouldn’t risk it. Last thing I need is to zombify Isla’s kid.

Me:Probably not a good idea. Think I’ve caught a stomach bug. I’ve been vomiting all morning.

Isla:Gross. How’d you manage that?

Me:Don’t know, dude. But if I do have it, I think I’m contagious. I don’t want you or little Cal turning into zombies.

Isla:Oh shush, it’s not like I’m gonna be touching your vomit or poo. And I doubt you have a bug.

Me:Gross.

Isla:Yup! See you soon! I’ll bring you some goodies xx

Of course, she doesn’t listen.Moments later, Isla barges in, carrying Callie in her capsule and a brown Woolies bag in her other hand. She kicks the door shut behind her with a triumphant look on her face.

“Hey, sicko. How are you feeling?” she says, unloading the bag—Hydralytes, Saladas, and the canned chicken broth soup.

“Like shit. I told you to stay away.” I gesture to everything on the bench. “Why?”

“Because I love you,” she quips. “Now, spill. When did this all start?”

“A few days ago. Been cramping and hurling like my body’s auditioning forThe Exorcist.”

“Nice,” she says, amused. “All day or just mornings?”

“Both. Sometimes.” I throw my hands up. “I don’t know! Why all the questions? You taking notes for a thesis or something?”

“Hush! I’m just playing doctor,” she says with a wink.

“Fever?”

“No.”

“Appetite?”

“Tried toast this morning. My stomach said, ‘Hell no,’ and threw it right back up. Haven’t risked it since.” She laughs, a bright, obnoxious sound that somehow doesn’t make me want to murder her. “Who needs a doctor when I’ve got you?”

“Well, technically, Iama doctor,” she says, smugly adjusting Callie’s blanket.

“For animals.”

She waves it off like it’s semantics. “Same difference. Anyway, I got you soup. That vile organic stuff you like. You’re welcome.”

“Vile? They’re healthy.”

“Sure, Jan.” She dismisses me with a flick of her wrist. Moments later, she’s back, holding a bowl wrapped in a tea towel. Steam rolls up, carrying the smell of chicken and spices, and—oh, fuck no.

“Bon appétit,” she says, placing it in front of me with all the reverence of a maître d’.

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